The first year of the pandemic came and went and find myself growing more and more disillusioned with other people's visions of the erotic life. So much desperation and selfishness as our only motivation. Where is the spirit that feeds the dream, even if it is a nightmare? The reason I keep returning here is that I keep finding authors who surpass my expectations, who lift erotica into the realm of literature; weird and horrible perhaps, but still art. Once more they remind me why I love Edna St. Vincent Millay, Pat Parker, Judy Grahn and Patti Smith, why I miss the city of Stepanakert in the rain during a cease-fire and the kiss of my three sisters: mescaline, morphine and mushrooms.
Location
West MichiganGender
Male